


Morse Code

by forensic_artist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Morse Code, i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forensic_artist/pseuds/forensic_artist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs to get these dumb unrequited feelings out of his chest, so he begins tapping "I love you" in Morse Code every chance he gets whenever he's around that damned army man.</p><p>Based on the following tumblr post:<br/>http://wearitcounts.tumblr.com/post/84265058802/wankerbatch-sherlock-tapping-i-love-you-in</p><p>((Thanks to Neko_wa for correcting me on the structure of the Morse code!))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morse Code

It was unbearable.

It was almost hilarious how unbearable it was, actually.

Except it wasn't. Because it was unbearable.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with his flatmate and the continuous gnawing feeling (of wanting to curl up with him, kiss him, sleep with him, hug him from behind oh god) was completely and utterly ruining his life.

When he'd first developed the feelings, he assumed that it wouldn't last. He'd had feelings for a couple of other people in his past that were pathetically brief, but with John? He was only attractive, Sherlock reasoned. Attractive-- and clever. Couldn't leave that out. Attractive and clever. And witty. And caring. And fit and level-headed and calm and handsome and incredibly fit and--

Fuck.

And that's when he realised those feelings may be running deeper than he originally thought, and at first he felt more like "stop the train I want to get off".

Now, it was more like "stop the train I want to kiss him".

Then all at once, all those feelings slapped him right in the chest like a sledgehammer and refused to move until he said something. And by God was it ruining his work. For example, whilst leaning over a dead body at a crime scene in an old building, Sherlock spent approximately 2 and a half minutes staring at how the light reflected in John's shoes rather than how an arrow had embedded itself in the victim's eye socket. Luckily Lestrade had been the only one who had noticed, and had subtly sent a text which had successfully knocked Sherlock from his stupor, and once his fumbling fingers had dug it out of his pocket, he read the text ("stop staring at his fucking shoes before Donovan notices") and glared at the detective, who was innocently drinking the crap coffee, and _was he smirking_?

After that incident, Sherlock was careful not to stare at John (or his shoes), and had tried to ignore the feelings the same way he was ignoring Lestrade's sideways knowing glances and nudges.

Unsuccessfully, of course. These were the type of feelings that yelled and fought against his chest and beat against his heart, demanding to be left out through the simple words "I love you".

He had almost said it a couple of times, though, as an attempt to stop the feelings from taking over completely and to put an end to the whole business. It was a simple enough algorithm.

Declaration + agreement = success

Declaration + disagreement = not a success + kicking Lestrade in the balls

The first time was, again, at a crime scene, where after a quick analysis of who was where and the overall conclusion that only John was able to hear him (maybe Lestrade if he stopped sending those fucking "I know you want to fuck him" glances), Sherlock stood a little closer to John and a small ruffle of his hair later, he started to speak.

"John?"

"Mm?" Oh no, that was adorable.

"John, you may or not already know this, but... I--"

"~ _If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my fr_ ~" suddenly rang through the air, cutting the thick atmosphere (or at least for Sherlock) with Spice Girls, causing John to flurry for his phone clumsily, smirking slightly as he said to Sherlock, "it's Sarah... always changing her ringtone..." to which he proceeded to turn around abruptly and bring the ear to his phone to talk animatedly, leaving Sherlock to stare in disbelief over his shoulder. He resumed deducing the dead body with extra vigour and annoyance when Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder apologetically.

The second time, they were alone in 221B in the evening, with the TV on mute and both men at the table, eating John's fried pork and rice. The light from cars would occasionally shine through in slats and light up the room, lighting up the dust particles floating everywhere in a slow, dreamy manner.

This time, Sherlock realised halfway through eating a pork piece, he'd say it. The four words. Nothing else.

Say it.

Say it now.

"I love you, John."

John's gaze flew up to meet Sherlock's in surprise, before smiling and causing Sherlock's heart to rise with a strange sort of hope. "Thanks, it was quite tricky mind you but I thought I handled it well."

Wait, what?"

"W-what?" Sherlock had finally stammered out, his heart having now reached its peak and now going for its descent, falling further and further and further--

"The pork. You know."John frowned as he raised the fork to his mouth. "You said... you loved my pork?"

God fucking dammit.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, his heart now laden with all those damn feelings again as he pushed his plate aside. "Thank you, John. I'll see you in the morning." He rose from his seat and walked stoically to his room, hearing John put down his cutlery and call out to him, concern edging the call.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yes." No.

"You sure?"

"Yes." _No._

And without another word, Sherlock had slammed his door to inwardly yell about the stupidity of both parties involved.

 

 

Now, of course, Sherlock had found the most efficient way of ridding his chest of these suffocating emotions that threatened to burst out whenever the simplicity that was John Watson was in the proximity, through a matter of simply tapping out a simple rhythm on any surface available.

///.. // .-../ ---/ ...-/ . // -.--/ ---/ ..-///

I love you.

This helped relieve the pounding pressure of _let me out_ on his chest, and he was almost certain John would know Morse code, given his military background of course, but Sherlock knew John wouldn't be receptive enough to recognise a seemingly random number of dots and dashes as an actual sentence, let alone a declaration of love.

Originally, he'd been inspired by an article he had been reading on a form of near-extinct Japanese martial arts practice, and how a woman had needed to use it on her captors after her friend (a sniper over 500m away) had failed to see her Morse code signal through her sights. Of course John had been the one to suggest the article to Sherlock, so after he'd come up with the idea he waited until the day after so that John wouldn't make an unconscious link.

He was going to tap out a simple "hello", a test to see whether John would turn around from the TV and say "...hello?" back, but in the end, his fingers were numb and briskly tapped out ".. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-" without a second thought. Sherlock had frozen, his breath caught in his throat as he watched John's shoulders for any reaction.

Nothing.

No reaction, whatsoever. In fact, John yawned.

Sherlock forced himself to breathe normally again, before the feelings rose in his chest once more and he tapped out the simple sentence tentatively once more, against the hard wood of the desk.

John froze, before turning around to Sherlock with a frown of realisation on his face.

Sherlock nearly bolted.

"Sherlock...?"

"Mm?"

The most tangible, thick, heavy moment of deafening silence.

"Did you even bother getting milk yesterday?"

Oh.

"Nope," Sherlock replied after a hesitation, popping the p to normalise it.

"Ugh." John groaned before getting up. "I'll pop around to Tesco's and get some, shall I?"

"You do that." Sherlock was already gone, his fingers on the laptop, his focus on the screen.

John didn't even bother replying, and was already striding through to the kitchen to get his coat off the chair.

Sherlock tapped again, getting louder and louder each time.

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

He's putting on the coat.

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

He's fumbling for the keys to throw to Sherlock.

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

He's throwing the keys to Sherlock's already out-stretched hand.

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

"Don't forget to lock it behind me."

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

He's walking to the door.

///.. 

He's gone.

From then on, Sherlock tapped everywhere, on any surface, in an attempt to get it out of his chest whenever John was near. He tapped when John was on the other side of the flat. He tapped when John was curled up next to him watching Eastenders. Eventually, the rhythm of the words were stuck in his head like a mantra, a never-ending song of pathetic lovelorn.

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-///

///..

//.-../ ---/ ...- .//

//-.--/ ---/ ..-//

Sometimes, when the feelings grew too great for a mere three words, he'd add to it.

I love you John.

///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-//.---/---/.../-.///

John Watson, I am in love with you.

///.---/ --- /..../ -. // .--/ .-/-/ .../ ---/ -. //..//.-/--//../-.//.-../---/...-/.//.--/../-/....//-.--/---/..-///

But mostly, it was the same simple but momentous and heavily burdened "I love you."

The Morse code infiltrated his mind, and Sherlock was sure, after about a month of this, after he furiously tapped out ///..-./ ..- /-.-./ -.- // -.--/ ---/ ..- // .-/ -./ -.. // -.-- /---/ ..-/ .-. // ..-./ ..-/ -.-./ -.-/ .. -./ --. // .--./ . /.-. /..-./ . / -.-./ - // .... /.- /.. /.-./ .-.-.- // -.. /.. /-.-. /-.- /..../ . /.- /-.. / .-.-.- in very quick succession when John closed the door to his bedroom after asking Sherlock to help find his comb.

The feelings never went away. The code lessened the pain of what Sherlock was sure was unrequited love, but essentially, they beat against his chest like a drum and caused a really quite annoying intermittent tremble in his right index finger, the same finger used to tap the I love you.

Sherlock was pissed.

Still hopelessly attracted to the army man, but pissed.

So he stopped. He refused to tap, and clenched his hands in his pockets to force them from playing the rhythm drummed into his mind, the rhythm that now had its very own small room in his mind palace, located directly next to the rather large living room that was John Watson.

It lasted a day, with Sherlock too busy clenching and unclenching his hands to notice that John had spent a majority of the day running his fingers against surfaces as he walked by them.

The next day he got up stiffly from the chair he'd spent curled up in for 3 hours in the night, as per usual, and walked into the kitchen to find John already having tea.

"Morning," John muttered, not looking up from his mug.

"Good morning." Sherlock walked around the island and to the cupboard, his fingers unconsciously drumming _I love you_  for the first time in 24 hours into the grained wood of the cupboard door, not even looking at the army man until he saw him, out of the corner of his eye, turn right around to face Sherlock and extend his fingers against the marble top and tap out a series of knocks that strangely sounded like///..//.-../---/...-/.//-.--/---/..-//-/---/---//--..--//-.--/---/..-//.../-/..-/.--./../-..//--./../-/// and Sherlock thought about it and Sherlock processed it and Sherlock froze and Sherlock felt a sledgehammer against his chest and Sherlock twisted around to find John grinning at him.


End file.
